


the party never ends

by brawlite



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Child Abuse, Come Eating, Drug Use, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Due To Alcohol and Drug Use, M/M, Oral Sex, billy wants to fight, in the bathroom of a house party, steve probably just wants to sleep, they meet somewhere in the middle, what a romantic place for a drunken hookup guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 09:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13073769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: Billy wants a fight from Steve Harrington. He'll do just about anything to get it, too.





	the party never ends

_Bang, bang!_  
_Shoot 'em up the party never ends_  
_You can't think of dying_  
_When the bottle's your best friend_

 **18 and Life** , Skid Row

The party this weekend is at Susan’s house. Or Sherry’s. Whatever, doesn’t matter -- it’s at some broad’s house and Billy doesn’t give a flying fuck what her name is as long as he has a place to get shit faced and have some fun. He hears about it on Thursday through Tommy -- who is too eager for Billy to come with him, as always -- and just has to make it through to Saturday before he can let loose.

Billy makes it, just barely. Neil’s pissed about something or another on Friday and takes it out on Billy’s face. It doesn’t help that Billy eggs him on, too prideful at the end of a long day to bend instantly to Neil Hargrove’s posturing.

He gets it after a while, though. After his lip is split and his ribs are bruised and he’s feeling too empty inside to keep up the act.

By the time the weekend truly rolls around, Billy is burning hot in his gut, feeling hungry for something he can’t particularly name. Ravenous and depleted and just itching to move.

It’s not difficult slipping out of his house on Saturday -- it never is. On the weekends, Neil is usually out for long nights and doesn’t check in on Billy when he gets back, thank fuck. Billy knows he’s spending his time at the local trucker bar off 74, whiling away the nights and his money watching barely-legal girls dancing on tables for men old enough to be their fathers or grandfathers. He knows Neil will come back plastered and poorer. He’ll somehow manage to not wrap his car around a tree and he’ll pass out until at least mid-day on Sunday.

It’s inelegant, but perfect. It gives Billy plenty of time to waste his Saturday trying to find himself at the bottom of a bottle, trying to fill himself up with anything at all.

The party is already raging -- by Hawkins standards -- by the time Billy waltzes in. It’s a small-town affair, nothing like the shit he saw go down in California, but he can’t ask for anything more exciting. Billy’s stuck here in this shit-hole now; he just has to make do.

He quickly finds the booze in the kitchen and scans the crowd for any familiar faces. He spies Tommy and quickly looks away. The guy’s glommed onto Billy the second Billy strode into Hawkins High -- too eager to fall behind the new king. Tommy’s annoying and brash, but it’s sometimes nice to have someone crawling after him, begging for his attention. Right now, though, it’s the last thing Billy wants.

Not that he _truly_ knows what he wants tonight. Just what he doesn’t.

There’s a feeling itching and burning inside him, right underneath his skin. All he needs is for it to go away.

Whiskey helps. So does beer.

Everyone cheers him on when he does a killer keg-stand. That helps a little, too.

There are still cheers and screams ringing in his ears when he stumbles back into the kitchen, grinning and aimless. His limbs are a little looser with the fire of alcohol burning in his veins. He brushes past a few people he knows, shoulder-checking the boys and leering at the girls. Billy likes the attention he gets from both -- likes the way the girls ogle and the boys huff and posture and eventually bend to let Billy past.

Music plays, the bass thump-thumping in his bones. Billy plasters himself up against a pretty girl in the fancy living room and laughs in her ear as she sways against him. He dances until his chest is slick with sweat and he feels dizzy and warm, until he feels just a little less coiled-tight, a little less empty.

Eventually, though, Billy feels the pleasant buzz of alcohol falter too low and he pushes himself back to retreat to the kitchen for more booze. Without the buzz, he becomes acutely aware of the pain in his ribs, his lip, his face. He refuses to spend tonight anything other than shit-faced. He needs the release; he’s earned it.

When Billy tries to shoulder past a guy on the way through the narrow hallway into the kitchen, he is annoyed to find that the guy doesn’t move, doesn’t bend or submit to Billy’s whims. Instantly, anger flares in Billy’s chest. Hot and sudden and deliciously familiar.

“Watch it,” the guy says. When Billy gets a good look at him, it takes him a second to place his face, but once he does, Billy can’t help but be surprised. It’s Jonathan Byers, resident loser at Hawkins High -- and he’s staring down Billy Hargrove like he’s doesn’t have a care in the world.

Billy feels the first flutter of the desire for a fight rise in him like a caged bird. Excited, eager, greedy. Ooh, yes. This is what he wants: _this_ is a fight he could pick, _this_ is a way for Billy to feel whole again.

“Byers,” Billy sneers. “I didn’t know you made appearances at these sorts of things. Isn’t this a little too _mainstream_ for you?”

Byers rolls his eyes under his shaggy hair, the perfect picture of the outcast he is. “Sometimes I show,” he says, like he’d rather be doing anything other than talk to Billy Hargrove at a party.

“Yeah?” Billy says, stepping into Byer’s space. “You sure you were invited?”

“I invited him,” says a girl’s voice to Billy’s right, sharp and annoyed. When he turns, he’s looking down at picture-perfect Nancy Wheeler -- who is flanked by none other than Steve Harrington. Both of them are wearing sour expressions, glaring at the way Billy is hassling Byers.

Billy’s chest flares in delight. _King Steve_ is here. He’d much rather pick a fight with Harrington than Byers -- specifically because of how easily Steve gets riled up, how easily Steve _will_ fight him. Byers is proving to be much harder to break and Billy really doesn’t feel like making the effort.

“Hm,” Billy says, glancing between Byers and Steve, letting his eyes fall on Nancy once again. “Bringing both of your boyfriends, Wheeler? Classy.”

Nancy huffs, but doesn’t get as riled as Billy would like. Neither does Jonathan.

Steve scowls, eyes dark and sunken. He looks _tired_. But he also looks pissed off at Billy’s words. “Fuck you,” Steve says, and slams back the rest of the drink that’s in his hand. “Seriously, Hargrove. Go the fuck away.”

“Hm,” Billy says. “King Steve doesn’t like my company? I’m hurt.” Billy thumps at his chest. He leans back from Byers and takes a step toward Steve. “And here I thought we were friends, Harrington.”

Steve laughs, a little drunk, a little dumb. “We’re anything but friends, Hargrove.”

“Let’s just go,” Nancy says. Jonathan nods.

Steve, however, does not budge. “I’m not going anywhere.” He squares his shoulders and steps up to Billy. Billy is -- well, he’s not entirely pleased to see that when Steve isn’t slouching, he’s just that bit taller than Billy. But he _is_ pleased that Steve is getting a little riled, looking a little less tired.

“Yeah? You gonna fight me, pretty boy? That went so well for you last time.” Billy’s buzz from the alcohol is starting to wear off a bit, but it’s rapidly being replaced with a kick-up of adrenaline at the prospect of a fight with Steve.

“Nah,” Steve says. “You’re gonna walk the fuck away and leave them alone.” Steve nods at Nancy and Jonathan. Like he’s not scared of Billy at all anymore. It irks him that none of them seem flustered by Billy -- just annoyed and unforgiving of Billy’s presence anywhere near them. At least _that’s_ a familiar feeling.

It's certainly not what he wants, though.

“Fine,” Billy says. But only because he wants another drink and he doesn’t want to throw down with Steve in this tiny hallway. “But if you so much as look at me later, Harrington, I’m going to rearrange your face.”

“Great,” Steve says. “Looking forward to it.”

“Have fun with your boyfriends, Wheeler,” Billy says. “Make sure not to mix their names up in bed.”

With a cackle, Billy heads off to the kitchen in search of more whiskey.

\--

Billy finds whiskey and he also finds cocaine. God, he loves rich kids who are eager to please. He does a line off a green-tiled countertop and tips his head back when he’s done, eyes lifting to the too-bright lights in the ceiling. It burns and he breaks a little and it’s oh so good.

He thinks about the dead of winter and about the beach during a storm, about driving too fast on country roads and about how many cigarettes are left in the near-empty pack in his pocket.

His skin is flush and the room is warm. Like gasoline, his blood shoots through his veins, fiery and hot. He flings an arm around the nearest person’s neck and tips the last of a nearly-dead whiskey bottle down his throat. Their skin is hot against his, warm and delightful and not nearly close enough. It’s fine, though. Billy can make do.

Before he leaves the kitchen, he does another line.

\--

Billy finds Steve again a little while later. At this point, the party’s still raging but people have started to either split off to find a place to drunkenly hook up or to head somewhere else to do the same. Billy’s tired of the crowd downstairs -- it’s just boys like Tommy who shower him with praise and nameless girls who want his attention. Billy wants neither of those right now.

He’s still pleasantly drunk and a little high, feeling looser and more carefree than before. It’s been a good night, all things considered. Even with his bruised ribs. Billy’s gotten too many numbers to count and he’s had a hell of a lot of free booze.

It doesn’t feel like the night is quite over yet, though.

So Billy goes searching for something else, something _different_ \-- even though he’s still not sure what that is.

He’s wandering the hallways of the too-big house when Billy sees Steve: “Harrington!” Billy half-shouts -- Steve’s leaning up against the wall at the end of a hallway upstairs, looking decidedly alone and definitely pretty trashed.

“King Steve,” Billy keeps talking, his whole face lighting up. “Fancy seeing you up here.” He remembers his earlier promise and lets himself grin, just like a shark.

“You run out of girls downstairs? Pretty sure you won’t find any up here.”

“I found _you_ up here,” Billy says with a smirk. “You're pretty enough to be one.”

Steve grits his teeth when Billy strides toward him. Alcohol has them both a little on edge. The drugs have made Billy eager for a fight, wanting for a little hostility. His muscles are all tightly coiled, like he’s liable to explode at any given moment. Steve looks just as tired as before, but wobbly on his feet and exhausted to the bone. Even then, he’s still got some fire in him; it’s blazing in his eyes when Billy approaches.

“Shut your mouth, Hargrove,” Steve says. He's wound tight, but in a fragile sort of way. Like if Billy grabbed or pushed him too hard, he’d shatter apart right in Billy’s hands. It’s a heady kind of idea. Too tempting, too dreamlike.

Billy just laughs. “Or what? You'll run to your girlfriend?” Billy’s eager to pick a fight. He wonders just what he’ll need to say to get Steve to tumble into it, too.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“So, you’ll run to your boyfriend, then?” Billy grins devilishly, trying to poke and prod at Harrington until he can find a good soft spot to dig his fingers in. “You _do_ seem like his type: skinny, brunette, _pretty_.”

“Fuck you, Billy,” Steve hisses. “Sounds to me like you’re jealous. No one wanted to hook up with big bad Billy Hargrove tonight, huh?”

Now it feels a little like Steve is jabbing at him, just the way Billy is. It’s in a tired, resigned sort of way, but it’s definitely a start. One step closer to a fight, which sounds all kinds of good right about now. Yeah -- that’s what Billy wants. He wants some pain, some back and forth, wants someone to go up against. Fueled by the weight of the whiskey and the energy of the cocaine, he presses forward, continues on.

Steve’s wrong, though. Plenty of girls had wanted to hook up with him -- Billy just hadn’t wanted that tonight. It would’ve been _boring_. A waste of a night. But it’s fine -- Billy can work with that assumption. He’ll use what Harrington gives him.

Billy bares his teeth like a predator and pushes into Steve’s space. He presses his palm flat against the wall next to Steve’s head and leans in. “Looks to me like that’s _your_ problem, Harrington. A little lonely uptop your throne, King Steve?”

“Shove it with that shit, Hargrove. No one cares.” Ah, but Steve _does_ care, Billy knows. He wouldn’t get that tone, if he didn’t.

“Where _did_ your girlfriend go, huh? Is she up here with that loser?” Billy grins, now. “Is that it, you’re waiting around for them to be done, listening in like some kinda creep?” Billy glances at the hallway of closed doors around them, debating if he should pull one open just to see who’s inside.

Steve’s jaw clenches. Billy can see it in the way his muscles twitch and tense. Up this close, Steve smells like cheap beer, hairspray, and the faint hint of some expensive cologne. There’s a bit of sweat beading on his neck. The way his shoulders slump tells Billy that he’s exhausted down to the bone, but he’s still standing, still leaning up against this wall with Billy pressing in on his space.

“They left,” Steve says.

“Aw,” Billy coos into Steve’s ear. His nose brushes against a few stray hairs. Steve’s a little disheveled now, less perfectly coiffed than normal. “They left you all alone here? They must care _so much_ about you, huh?” Billy makes sure the sarcasm is dripping from his words, eager to find just the right button that’ll have Steve throwing the first punch.

“Screw off, Billy,” Steve says, tiredly.

Nothing seems to be working, though. No matter what bait Billy lies out, Steve refuses to take it. It’s all water off a duck’s back.

And it’s starting to really piss Billy off.

The coke still has him riding high, body itching for an outlet for all his energy. And now that Billy’s got his eyes set on the prize, he isn’t about to settle for anything less. Sure, he could pick a fight with someone downstairs, but that’s not what he _wants_. What he _wants_ is this pretty boy prom king reject, and Billy wants him to be the one to throw the first punch.

So Billy maybe tips the table in his favor. He grabs Steve by the collar and hauls him up against the wall, rage bubbling and boiling right underneath his skin. “What, are you too cool now?

“Maybe you’re just not all that scary, Hargrove,” Steve says.

Billy snarls. He bares his teeth like a dog, and Steve does nothing. If Billy lashed out like this at any of those losers downstairs, they’d wet themselves. If he lashed out like this at his father, he’d be punched in the teeth.

But Steve -- Steve does nothing.

The inaction is sandpaper against sensitive skin: fucking annoying and not at all what Billy wants.

Billy ups the ante, pressing in against Steve so that their torsos are flush and Steve’s back is trapped against the wall. Billy’s shirt is half open and Steve is warm against his flesh, radiating heat like a goddamn supernova.

Billy laughs in Steve’s face and Steve barely notices, like he’s bored of Billy’s antics. He stares back, like he’s waiting for Billy to lose interest and leave.

Annoyance curls in Billy’s gut, thorny and invasive. It twists between his ribs and snakes around his spine, painful and prickling. All Billy wants is a fight and Steve is practically part of the wall Billy is pushing him against. But there’s gotta be something, _anything_ to make Steve twist and squirm against him. So far, everything Billy’s tried hasn’t worked in the slightest. His box of tricks is nearly fucking empty.

But there’s still one thing left, something egregious and irresponsible and the worst idea -- and it’s something Billy’s _just_ drunk enough to consider.

Anything for a rise out of Steve Harrington, right?

Without any preamble, Billy leans in close, takes a breath, and licks a long stripe up Steve’s neck from his collar to his jaw. The movement is long and slow and Billy’s breath is hot against Steve’s skin.

Steve, who has been generally pretty still against Billy, absolutely _freezes_ at the contact.

When Billy reaches Steve’s jaw, he pauses just there for a moment, letting his breath warm that mole-dotted skin. Steve’s just this side of stubbly when Billy’s nose brushes against his cheek, and it’s distracting, distracting in the same way that Steve’s heavy breathing is distracting, Steve’s chest expanding against Billy’s own.

Steve is only still for a moment more -- and then he’s moving. Billy isn’t sure how Steve gets the jump on him, but one moment Billy’s head is spinning and the next, Steve is pulling him by his shirt into an adjacent bathroom Billy hadn’t even noticed was _there_. At some point, Steve slams the door and the sound echoes in Billy’s ears. Billy stumbles, feeling much more drunk than he had only seconds before, but catches himself on the counter and levels his eyes with Steve.

Steve, who’s standing there a couple feet from him with dark eyes and messy hair, looks somewhere between confused and furious. “What the _hell_ , Hargrove?” he finally says.

Billy doesn’t have an answer for that. He’s not even sure, himself. But it’s fine, because Steve keeps talking like Billy’s answer wouldn’t’ve mattered anyway, hands on his hips and eyes full of fire: “Jesus, Billy. What the hell were you thinking?” He’s practically vibrating with something that Billy’d call anger, or maybe something like hatred, too.

It’s the most animated Billy’s seen Steve in a long fucking while. It lights a fire in his chest --- yes, _this_ is exactly what he wanted.

Billy just grins, all teeth, as he drinks Harrington and his fury in. “I wasn’t,” Billy says, because it’s the truth, and because he knows it’ll piss Steve off even further.

This time, Steve comes at him, rushing Billy, shoving him against the door with a solid and violent thunk. Billy sees him coming, but does nothing to stop him, eagerly awaiting the pain of being thrown against the door. Billy feels the wood of it collide with his back, just as Steve’s torso collides with his own. “Why can’t you just leave me alone, huh?”

“Maybe I don’t want to,” Billy grins. His ribs are aching in pain, a reminder of his previous night’s mistakes, a reminder of why he wants to crawl out of his skin.

“There are people out there, they could’ve fucking _seen_.”

“Yeah?” Billy says, aflame under Steve’s ire. “It bother you that they could’ve seen me do this?” Billy drops his head again and goes for Steve’s neck with his tongue. But Steve’s got him against the wall, held close, and Billy can only dip his head so low. Instead, he goes for what he can reach: he gets Steve’s jaw and the outer rim of his ear. “Or, how about this?” Billy asks, grazing his teeth over the cartilage right there by his mouth, breath hot and heavy on Steve’s ear.

Steve freezes again. Stiff like a goddamn corpse.

Harrington _could_ push Billy sideways. He _could_ shove himself back. But he doesn’t do either of those things. Instead, he just freezes like a rabbit in the sights of a predator, bracketing Billy in against the solid weight of the door behind him.

Interesting.

“Yeah,” Steve says, his voice rougher and shakier than before. “It fucking bothers me.” But he sounds more awake than he has in days, more engaged and enlivened. His fists tighten in the fabric of Billy’s shirt when he shoves him against the door again as a warning, an extra expression of violence and threat -- but he hasn’t moved away or punched Billy yet, so the game is still on.

It’s a dangerous game, but Billy’s playing it anyway.

Billy pushes forward and gets at Steve’s neck again. He waits for the punch, but it never comes. Every time he drags his tongue along that sensitive skin, Steve stills underneath his attentions, practically seconds from trembling against Billy like a goddamn leaf. “Yeah?” Billy says, running his teeth over Steve’s jugular. “Tell me about it, pretty boy.”

“I’m not fucking --” Steve starts, his words catching on their own texture. At this point, his voice is deeper than Billy’s ever heard it go.

He fits his teeth around Steve’s neck and bites down. Steve startles and shoves him back against the door again, hard enough for the wood of it to thump in the frame. Yes, _yes_. Steve is so close to his breaking point, he can only be moments from snapping, now. So -- Billy bites down. Hard. Drunk, he lets his tongue roll over skin while he does it, tasting sweat, tasting Steve.

He expects Steve to yank back and punch him in the jaw -- but that’s not what happens. There is no thrown fist, no resulting pain. No hissing of a curse or a thwack of Billy’s head against the door. What happens instead is this: Steve melts. It’s just about the only word for it that Billy has. Steve folds in against Billy and makes a noise in his throat that sounds equal parts pained and -- something not pained in the slightest.

It’s _alarming_. Billy doesn’t know what to do with that at all.

But he hasn’t yet moved his mouth. His teeth are still pressed down onto Steve’s skin, his tongue still over his heartbeat. It takes a second for Billy to realize his position -- but when he does, he pulls off immediately, startled. Like Steve’s skin could burn him, like it _has_.

His thoughts are a jumble of emotions he can’t sort out, of dizzy thoughts and feelings and desires.

Billy figures his best option is go with gloating. After all, he did make Steve do _something_. He cracked that hard and fatigued shell after so much effort. _Billy did that._

_Billy won._

But before Billy can gloat, before he can find the words to make his victory clear to Steve, he doesn’t get a chance. Steve grabs him roughly by the chin and holds him there; making sure Billy can’t come at him again. Harrington’s grip is surprisingly firm and with a little tried twitch, Billy finds that he can’t move. Whether that’s from Harrington’s hold on him or the surprise of the sudden capture, Billy isn’t sure.

Steve’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. His gaze is heavy with something besides alcohol, dark and ravenous. Billy’s words, however half formed they are, die on his lips.

For a long moment, they just stand there, Harrington pressing him against the door to the bathroom, his body a long line of heat against Billy’s. Billy hasn’t made this kind of lingering, heated eye contact with anyone in months.

Harrington’s grip suddenly shifts. His thumb slides up and over Billy’s split lip, rough and calloused against broken skin. Pressing down, pressing hard. Fuck, it _hurts_. Billy startles at the sudden frisson of pain and jerks back against the door. When Billy moves, Steve’s thumb pulls against his lip, swiping rough to the side. His lip feels warm in the wake of Steve’s touch. Breathing heavy and head now spinning, it takes Billy a second to realize that his lip isn’t just warm from Steve’s touch, but also from blood. His split lip must’ve been pried back open from the touch, still freshly scabbed over and delicate.

Steve is watching him carefully, eyes on Billy’s sluggishly bleeding lip.

“Who gave you the fat lip?” Steve asks with a smirk. His tone implies something impish, like Billy got smart with a girl downstairs and she slapped him up good. Billy wishes it was something so easy.

Billy doesn’t want to answer that. He doesn’t even want to think about that. He wants the attention off his bloody lip, he wants Steve’s eyes off his face.

Instead of answering, Billy just snarls and pushes forward into Steve’s space.

Unfortunately, he drunkenly miscalculates the move a bit. Steve’s thumb had been still resting loosely on his lip before he moved: when Billy jolts forward, Steve’s thumb slides straight between Billy’s lips and into his mouth.

Steve’s thumb pushes Billy’s blood across his own tongue. It’s rich and coppery in his mouth.

Billy freezes. Steve freezes.

There’s nowhere Billy can look other than directly into Steve’s eyes.

There’s the steady thump of music from downstairs, but Billy’s heart pounds in his head louder than any song he’s heard tonight. His skin prickles with nerves, with heat, with the strange sensation of looking into Steve Harrington’s eyes while Steve’s thumb presses down on his tongue. It should feel oppressive, should feel choking -- but it doesn’t. Billy just feels hot and dizzy, and he is now incredibly and acutely aware of Steve’s body against his own.

Long moments pass before anything happens, just both of them breathing heavy in the quiet of the bathroom. Saliva is starting to pool in Billy’s mouth, but to swallow, he’d have to swallow around Steve’s thumb and that feels like taking a step out into open, uncharted waters.

Finally, Steve moves his thumb. But he doesn’t pull it out of Billy’s mouth like Billy’s expecting. Instead, he slides it across Billy’s tongue and over his teeth. There’s a reverent look on Steve’s face; eyes wide and pupils blown. Steve’s thumb moves so easily in Billy’s mouth, slick and strange. Everything Billy has focuses on that movement, that feeling.

It feels -- _good_. God, it feels good.

Holy fuck.

Billy is too drunk. He knows this because he lets his lips close over Steve’s thumb like a fucking whore. His tongue slides over Steve’s thumb and Billy swallows down spit and blood and the taste of Steve.

Steve makes that noise again, the one that comes deep from his throat that sounds like it’s been ripped straight from his ribcage. That sound goes straight to Billy’s dick.

The realization is like a bolt of lightning. Well, _hell_.

Panic flares in his gut, white hot and startling, but it is immediately extinguished by the memory of Steve’s moan, by the feeling of Steve’s thumb in his mouth, against his tongue, against his teeth, against his soft palate. The allure of reality, instead of panic, is too poignant to ignore.

This is not at all the kind of fight Billy had been trying to pick.

But, drunk and stupid and more turned on than he’d like to admit, Billy finds that he doesn’t _care_. He wants more of that noise, more of Steve Harrington sounding _alive_. There’s something thrilling about knowing that _he_ did that, that Billy was the one that dragged Steve from a place of endless fatigue and gave him some life back. This is a rush, one he isn’t willing to back away from. And Steve? Steve doesn’t look like he minds so much, either. His eyes are dark and hungry, and for the first time tonight he looks awake and alert and energized -- all his attention is focused on Billy like a spotlight.

So, Billy rolls his tongue over Steve’s thumb again, lapping up the remainder of his blood. It tastes good, but the feeling of it is better. So is the sound the action drags out of Steve.

“Fuck, Hargrove,” Steve groans. Billy kind of wants to eat up his curses, lap them up like cream.

Billy smiles around that thumb, biting at Steve playfully with his teeth before he closes his lips again and _sucks_. Steve groans again.

“Oh my god,” Steve says while Billy’s head swims.

Billy thought Steve was close before, but when Steve shifts and presses more fully against him, Billy realizes just how much he was missing. Steve’s body is hot and lean, and he’s strong enough to pin Billy in in a nice way, in a way that makes him feel secure, yet not quite caged. Billy could break out from Steve’s hold if he wanted to -- but he finds that he doesn’t want that at all.

He fucking _likes_ this.

He even likes the hard press of something that is unmistakably Steve Harrington’s dick jutting against Billy’s thigh. He shouldn’t like it; god, _he shouldn’t_ \-- but he does.

It’s wrong, what Billy’s doing right now -- but laden with alcohol and the rush of a high, he can’t seem to tear himself away. There’s no point in trying: he doesn’t want to, anyway.

Billy presses forward, rocking his body against the long line of Steve’s in a way he’d probably think of as obscene if saw a girl doing it. Hell, _is_ obscene the way Billy grinds against Steve, sensual and hot and close. Steve groans again -- no, wait, he _moans_ and the sound of it has Billy panting around Steve’s finger.

There’s no question now as to what they’re doing, what kind of territory this fight has slipped into. None of this is for show anymore. Well -- except maybe for the way Billy looks up through his lashes at Steve, in a way he _knows_ is decidedly impish, as he swivels his tongue around Steve’s thumb once again.

“ _Billy,_ ” Steve groans, grinding his body against Billy’s. Billy’s hands fumble for the doorknob behind him, fingers jamming at the lock so that there’s no chance they’ll be interrupted by drunken idiots looking for a spot to make out.

Slowly, Billy pulls his lips from around Steve’s thumb. He licks his lips and grins, wide, like the cat that got the cream. “Yeah, Harrington?” It’s so nice to see him like this, to see Steve awake, so focused.

He wants to ask Steve what he wants, wants to hear everything that is currently running through Steve’s drunken fantasies, but he also doesn’t think they’re are quite fucked up enough for that. So, Billy doesn’t say anything; instead he catches Steve’s lips in his own, to prevent either of them from saying something that neither of them can take back.

Kissing Steve is like fighting him. It’s bracing, rousing, rough. It’s decidedly sloppy and messy, and there’s a hint of pain edged into every moment, something that Billy can’t get enough of. His split lip stings in protest, but soon Steve’s lips taste of Billy’s blood, his tongue like cheap booze and cigarettes. Billy can’t stop; it’s too much and not at all enough at the same time.

Steve’s hand snakes into Billy’s hair, pulling at it, against the dampness of sweat and the crunch of hairspray. He pulls until Billy breaks the kiss, panting and licking the spit from his lips.

It takes him a second to realize that Steve is looking at him questioningly. Steve flicks his eyes down and Billy follows his gaze, looking to where Steve’s got a hand wrapped around the metal buckle of Billy’s belt. Fuck, how did he not notice that, so caught up in kissing Steve?

“Can I?” Steve asks, voice gravelly. He licks his lips, and Billy’s eyes dart to follow the movement of his tongue.

“Fuck yes,” Billy says, before he can dwell too much on ramifications. This isn’t about that. This is about how eager Steve looks, how dark his eyes are, and the way he’s trembling against Billy and clawing at his belt.

Fumbling and impatient, Steve gets Billy’s belt undone and slides his hand under the elastic of Billy’s briefs to get a hand around his already hard cock. It’s a little surprising how forward Steve is, how unintimidated and brave. He doesn’t look back, just plows forward, propelled ahead by the crashing waves of reality.

Billy groans, tilting his head back until it hits the door again, eyes closed. “You done this before?” Billy asks, trying for cocky and probably hitting curious instead, when Steve starts moving his hand. Whatever -- Billy’s a little distracted.

“Nah,” Steve says, and leans forward to mouth at Billy’s neck. “But I figure -- how hard can it be?” Steve’s words fade into Billy’s skin, sending shivers down Billy’s spine.

Billy laughs, his breath catching more than he’d like to admit.

Steve does something with his hand that makes Billy groan, his hips bucking against that grip. Steve works him over good, touching Billy in a confident way, a bold way. Steve doesn’t seem at all worried about doing something wrong or touching him in a way he won’t like. He just goes full steam ahead, relying on Billy’s noises and his motions to guide him forward. It’s hot in a way Billy hadn’t expected, something needed and missed.

When Steve sinks his teeth into Billy’s neck, Billy grabs him by the hair, yanking his encouragement -- not pulling Steve away, but encouraging him closer. Steve is full of all sorts of little noises that Billy wants to eat right up, noises that he knows he’s going to be hearing in his fantasies for months to come.

Steve’s grip tightens and his pace quickens, and Billy can barely hold on. His head thwacks against the door and he groans, loud and long, hips bucking to chase the pleasure Steve is giving to him. There are dirty words whispered in his ear, half-formed thoughts and curses, before Steve catches him in a kiss. The taste of Steve and the taste of blood are distracting enough that Billy can lose himself in the moment, in the feelings.

Steve works him over until Billy is putty in his hands, shivering and shaking and moments away from release. All Steve has to do is break away from the kiss, to mouth more dirty, quiet encouragements against Billy’s lips, and then he’s coming, spilling himself all over Steve’s hand. Billy’s quiet when he comes, open mouthed and gasping, body quivering with white hot pleasure before the come down.

“Fuck,” Billy finally says, catching his breath in the sudden quiet of the room.

“Yeah,” Steve says, sounding just as rough as Billy feels.

There’s a beat of quiet in between them, a moment of dead space. Static.

Billy’s heart lurches into his throat when he spots something that looks an awful lot like panic starting to kindle in Steve’s eyes. He can see the wheels turning, the moment of _oh god_ and perhaps even the thought that Billy might punch him. It’s not out of the realm -- after all, it’s what Billy came here for originally, and it’s in the past between them -- but Billy finds that he doesn’t like that look on Steve right now. No, he much preferred that look of bliss while Steve had been grinding against Billy’s thigh.

So, in an ill-advised and disgusting moment of sheer intoxicated indulgence, Billy grabs at Steve’s hand, still dripping with his own come, and brings it to his mouth. Billy slides Steve’s fingers into his mouth, savoring the taste of his own bitter spunk only moments before it cools. He’s still drunk enough, still dizzy enough from his own orgasm, that he can justify this as hot and not at all gross.

It’s even hotter when Billy catches the look on Steve’s face. Confusion and trepidation have melted into sheer, incredulous ecstasy. Steve’s eyes are glued on Billy’s lips, on the way his tongue darts over the landscape of Steve’s hands. Billy takes his time, cleaning Steve up nice and good while Steve falls into panting silence. Steve’s fingers twitch as Billy’s tongue laps at the valleys between his fingers, as he cleans up every inch of his warm skin. Steve looks so mercilessly _alive_ , so human in this one snapshot of a moment. It’s just about the hottest goddamn thing Billy has ever seen.

Billy pushes Steve back a couple steps and drops to his knees in front of him.

“Oh my god,” Steve whispers, his hands immediately threading into Billy’s hair.

Billy just smirks and works at undoing Steve’s belt. He shoves Steve’s pants and his boxers halfways down his hips, freeing Steve’s leaking, hard cock. The sight of Steve, this thick and aching for him, lights something inside Billy’s gut, something not quite extinguished from his orgasm. Billy gets a hand around him, taking a minute to appreciate the weight of it, the warmth, the feel of it in his hand.

It doesn’t last long, though, because Billy can’t wait to get his lips around Steve, to lick the drop of precome off the tip of his junk. To taste him. To make him quiver and come, just like Steve had done to him. It’s all Billy can think about and his self-control is totally shot, so he wastes little time in truly appreciating the moment.

When Billy gets Steve into his mouth, Steve practically liquifies. Goddamn, the _noises_ that boy makes.

Billy sinks his fingers into the fleshy backs of Steve’s thighs, getting a good hold on him just so he can feel the way Steve’s legs shake when he digs his fingertips in. Harrington catches himself on the bathroom counter with one hand, the other firmly planted with a good grip in Billy’s hair, fingers tangling and pulling with enthusiasm.

It’s perfect to see Steve like this, to feel him so engaged and enraptured. The fatigue has completely melted from him, replaced by sheer desire and eagerness. He thrums with energy underneath Billy’s touch. There is so much potential there for Billy to drink down with each swipe of his tongue, each swallow, each passing of his lips over Steve’s sensitive skin.

This isn’t exactly something Billy’s done before, but it’s not difficult to get the hang of with some dedication and perseverance. He does what he’d like done to him, and a couple things that girls have done in the past, including an artful swirl of his tongue that really gets Steve motor running. Billy delights in eeking out every last noise out of Steve, out of getting him to tremble and shake underneath Billy’s tongue. There’s something powerful about it, something Billy can’t quite put a finger on. It makes him feel strong and _wanted_ , like he’s doing something good for someone else.

Billy loses himself in the sensations and the rhythm. _Fuck_ , Steve’s fingers feel good as they knot in his hair, as his nails drag against Billy’s scalp. The pain is already getting Billy well on his way to half-hard again.

Steve is a mess of moans and beautiful noises by the time he tugs roughly and frantically at Billy’s hair, trying to pull him up and off in a gesture Billy recognizes well. He doesn’t move a muscle, other than to suck Steve off harder and faster than before.

When Steve finally comes, spilling himself down Billy’s throat, Billy swallows and finds himself a little sad it’s over. Harrington’s fingers twitch in his hair, spasming before he drags his palm down the back of Billy’s head to rest warm on the back of his neck. Steve’s hands stays there, hot and steady, for two long seconds before Steve removes.

Billy pulls off, giving one last lap to the underside of Harrington’s dick, reveling in the fact that his spunk doesn’t taste nearly as bad as Billy thought it might. He’s sure that’s something he ought to feel guilty about, but he’s still too buzzed and fucked-out to care.

“ _Jee-sus,_ ” Harrington says, when Billy rocks back on his knees, licks his lips and looks up at him, a little dizzy. Steve’s staring down at him with those big hazel eyes of his. He looks so real, so tangible. So goddamn technicolor -- and so much less washed out than before.

Billy slaps the back of Steve’s thigh and watches as he pitches forward, unstable on clearly shaky legs. Billy laughs. “Was it good for you, pretty boy?” He knows full well that it was.

Steve just stares at him for a minute, like he’s not sure what to expect. Like Billy could turn on him like a rabid animal at any given second. Then, when Billy keeps grinning dopily, feeling docile and satisfied, Steve finally smiles. It’s a careful thing, and also cautious, but Billy loves the look of it on Steve. It’s a little extra something too, knowing Billy’s the one who put that smile on his face.

In that moment, Billy wants to kiss him again; the desire is so sudden and strong he finds himself dazed and stricken by it. But that option seems so strangely far away, now. Further than arms reach.

“Yeah,” Steve says, voice rough. Gravely in a nice way. “Yeah, it was.”

Billy grins a little wider, pushing himself up from his knees as he fastenes his pants back up. “Good,” he says. “It was pretty decent for me, too.” And it sure as hell was.

Billy’s still dizzy, still feeling lightheaded and a little free. In the way that he usually does after a good fight. It’s strange -- he’s never quite felt like this after sex before, so relaxed and easy.

But the more time that trickles between the moments, the more reality starts to creep into the cracks, bright and unignorable.

“Well,” Billy says, watching Steve put himself back together like some voyeur. Harrington leans forward and fixes his hair in the mirror with a gentle ruffle, making sure it’s sufficiently fluffed. Billy stares at him, unable to tear his eyes away, uncaring about his own image. Even now that their heated moment of passion has passed, he still can’t bring himself to stop watching Steve.

Eventually, Steve deems himself presentable. He turns to Billy, presumably looking to take his cues from him. The problem is, Billy has no goddamn clue what he’s meant to do, now. He feels a little lost, a little off-balance and still too drunk. In the wake of something so heated, the bathroom feels cold and strange now, like the walls are too small and the space between him and Steve is too big.

Billy tosses on a grin, because that’s easy. It’s ingrained. He knows how to play up the charm, even when he’s unsettled. It’s second nature to flirt, even if his intended subjects are usually women, not Steve Harrington. It’s the same general idea, just a bit more fun because there’s a roughness to Harrington that Billy finds likes to play off of, that he likes to tease.

He slaps Steve on the shoulder, and then lets his fingers crawl up to Steve’s neck. He thumbs over his jugular and Steve shudders under his touch. Billy leans forward until he’s close, until he’s up in Steve’s space again, breathing in his smell one last time. He lets his teeth sink into the flesh of Harrington’s neck, worrying at it with his tongue until it’s red and angry when he finally pulls away.

When Billy looks at Steve, he can’t help but grin again -- this time, he doesn’t even have to force it. Steve looks like a disheveled mess. Face red, pupils blown. His mouth is half open in surprise, like he hadn’t expected that at all.

Billy thumbs over the hickey he left on Steve’s neck, admiring his work. It’s nice, knowing he left a tangible impression on Steve. “You got a little something,” Billy says with a wink, “right about here.”

Steve shivers, leaning into the touch even as Billy pulls away.

“Catch ya’ later, Harrington,” Billy says, slipping out the door to leave Steve speechless in the empty bathroom.

The party rages on downstairs, and Billy’s sure he can find a little more whiskey to make it the rest of the way through the night.

**Author's Note:**

> a huge and magnificent thank you to [unicornsandbutane](https://unicornsandbutane.tumblr.com/), without whom this would not have happened. i truly cannot express my undying gratitude -- this truly perfect human helped so much and tirelessly held my hand pretty much every step along the way whilst i was screaming with concern and trepidation. all the best parts are thanks to you, friend.
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com), if you are so inclined.


End file.
